


Water Mouth, Sand In Pockets

by zempasuchil



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:39:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5206211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zempasuchil/pseuds/zempasuchil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long summer day of working on the Stan O'War, Ford takes a shower, while Stan lays his stinky self down in Ford’s bed. To relax. And jerk off. So maybe his brother could catch him at it. So what? ... He kind of wants it to happen. (Stan gets his wish, and a happy ending.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Mouth, Sand In Pockets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calciseptine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/gifts).



> For calciseptine in the Stancest Halloween Exchange on tumblr. Tumblr post here: http://zempasuchil.tumblr.com/post/132766798383/this-is-a-fic-for-calciseptine-in-the

Stan lies back in the humidity of his own sweat. He’s kicked all the covers off the bottom bunk - Ford’s bunk - on this hot June day. Now that final exams are finally over and school is out, Stan had managed to persuade Ford to spend the whole day on the beach, building their boat.

“It’ll keep your mind off grades,” he’d said, but Ford insisted he wasn’t worried about grades. The way Ford chewed his lip hard when he said it, though, like he did during every test, Stan could tell he was kinda lying. Not that Ford needed to worry about grades - he was a genius and he knew it, they didn’t care what school thought - but there was something about it. Well, Stan never cared about grades. He just didn’t see the appeal.

Right now it’s not even fully dark yet. A few dim rays of the just-set sun are peeking under their curtain, but it’s already their well-enforced bedtime. Well, more like a curfew, since they’re in high school, but Mom always says she can hear them rattling around the house and to be quiet and go to their rooms.

Stan’s more or less content to do that. He’d even welcome the solitude. Not that he’s trying to get away from Ford, but…

It’s been a long day out in the hot sun. His skin is still sticky with sweat. Ford is in the shower for a few more moments and Stan’s got his shirt off, his jeans opened, his hand pushed down between the denim and the cotton of his briefs, cupped and lightly, absently, groping himself.

It’s not weird. It’s what he does when he gets a moment alone. And he knows Sixer’d do the same.

This is more intense though. Stan groans into his other arm, slung across his mouth, and digs his teeth into the soft skin there. First whole hot summer day outdoors and he’s well sunburnt, chafing against the rough, cool sheets, and he can feel his own hot skin tight, like a drum. If Ford walked in here and flicked him he’d make an uncontrollable sound - a yelp, a rough grunt, a sudden release of voice.

He’s been thinking about it all day. That’s what’s getting him. Ford filled out more over the winter, and sure he’d seen it, since they live in each other’s space all the time - really, _all_ the time. But today they were out and Ford took off his shirt sometime in the afternoon. Stan had teased him about being blindingly white, but Ford just poked his already-blooming sunburnt shoulder, and Stan yelped.

“You’re the one who needs a shirt,” Ford said. “Who’re you even showing off to, out here? The seagulls?” He laughed obnoxiously while Stan frowned and thwacked him on his farmer’s tan. That’d show him.

Ford pinched his side and he squirmed.

Stan squirms again, that slithering, twisted feeling of pleasure in his belly. It’s not butterflies; Stan knows butterflies. This was something… weirder. Something less giddy and more… something.

Stan thinks about Ford pinching his side again. How he had squirmed away but glanced back cockily to see his brother looking at him.

He flexes there in the bed like he had then, and the sheets burn a little roughly against his tender skin. It feels good. Yeah, yeah… maybe he _had_ beenshowing off.

Stan doesn’t have much time left before Ford comes in from his shower, but he’s not rushing. He really should be rushing. He just… wants to take his time. He tells himself, he’s just tired, doesn’t wanna move so fast. Tells himself Ford hasn’t been that long. That whenever Stan hears the water turn off, he can just hop up and grab the next shower. If he really wants one. Which he doesn’t.

He wants to get caught. He’s been waiting all day to get caught.

Stan didn’t really think Ford had been staring at him today. After all, he’d have seen it, with all the staring-at-Ford he was doing - right? The stupid number of nails he bent today while distracted, thinking about how Ford got those muscles, now apparent under his thinning layer of baby fat. Maybe not an impressive set of guns next to Stan’s own, but Ford’s been doing math, not boxing. He has an excuse for falling behind in the bodybuilding realm. But still. With all this boat-building, his back is getting pretty amazing.

Stan thinks of the look of Ford’s back flexing when they were cooling off in the ocean. How his muscles were rounded. How old and tight his shorts were, how high up his leg they went, how soft he looked. The way when they were soaking wet they sucked right to his body, outlining everything, the fabric draping right down between the cheeks of his ass. Stan was awful for staring as long as he did - fuck - and now he’s got his hand in his shorts, stroking his bare dick to the thought of his twin.

_C'mon_ , he urges himself, _more now_ \- what he’d wanted to do then was get all over his brother. He’d tackled him into the water to interrupt his own blaring-in-his-head sunsick daydream about tasting the ocean in the small of Ford’s back, his pungent sweat being washed away from where it had pooled while they napped under the Stan o’ War’s sail.

Pulling the waistband of his briefs down to let his thickened dick spring free, he cups a hand under his balls and pulls a little. His breath hitches and he moans into his arm. Licking, the taste of his own sweat is salty and a little rank; he keeps thinking of the sea water - he thinks of pulling the waistband of Ford’s shorts like this - he pushes the elastic down behind his own balls and takes his dick in hand again. He closes his eyes tight and hard and hears a rushing in his ears as he arches his back off the bed. He doesn’t want to think of what he’s doing or how wrong it is - just what he wants - Ford -

“Fuck,” he moans, “Stanford,” and he hears the lock on the door click.

Ford’s standing there, stock still, as if he’s trying to go unnoticed. He’s half-turned, with one hand on the doorknob and the other holding up the towel at his waist. His eyes are on Stan - sprawled half-naked on his bed. _Ford’s_ bed.

Oh.

“Fuuuuuck,” Stan groans, and his body tenses in preparation to fight or flight, or just curl up into a ball.

“Shh,” Ford whispers. He’s still standing there, and then Stan sees him lean against the door. Still watching.

Stan pants, open-mouthed. This is what he wanted, right? The look on Ford’s face, he never expected - even in the dim light he can tell Ford gulps and shuffles and sags against the door. His mind is still boggling, but his hand moves again on his dick, as if it’s onboard with an agenda that Stan’s brain is still trying to process.

“You’re staring,” Stan says, quietly, and his voice cracks.

“Yeah,” says Ford. “So?” He shifts and grabs the front of his towel, right over his dick. “You’re jerking off in my _bed_.” He almost sounds angry. But there’s something else there too - his frustrated grumble, ending with a whine…

Stan groans, blindingly hard, and his lips curl up into a shaky smirk. From under half-lidded eyes he can see Ford, now closer, moving across the room toward him, cheeks flushed.

“Yeah. Fuck,” Stan says again, breath hissing between his teeth. He’s suddenly aware of the smallest sound - the soft whisper of his arm against his belly, the slick wet sound of fisting his dick, his breathing. He wants to look away from Ford. This is too much. But instead he looks right at him.

“If you’re so entertained -” Ford frowns but Stan can see his hand move and squeeze his crotch over his towel “- c'mon. This ain’t a free show. Gotta give a little to get a little.”

An inhaled breath, and suddenly Ford’s reaching out to grab Stan’s thigh, the waist of his jeans, his wrist, puts his hand around Stan’s hand around his dick

“Holy shit,” Stan mouths

“Move,” Ford says, and when Stan just gapes at him, Ford sighs, takes his hand away (Stan’s the one who whines then), and pulls Stan’s knees wider apart so he can crouch between Stan’s legs.

“Holy – aghgh.” Ford has Stan’s hand in his again, and the breadth of his six fingers makes one slide over, and Stan swears Ford’s touching his dick – like actually touching his dick – not just by proxy. “I didn’t mean – I mean this is. Good. I thought – fuck, Sixer – just a reciprocal peep show.”

“You said ‘give’.” Ford swipes his thumb over the head of Stan’s dick and Stan writhes, a blurt of precome dripping onto his hand. “Come on, what do you really mean? What do you want?”

Stan screws up his face and when he opens his eyes, Ford’s leaning over him, straddling one leg, arm braced on the bed, his towel somehow, frustratingly, still wrapped around his waist. A few drops of water splash onto Stanley’s chest from Ford’s wet hair. “This.”

Stan takes his hand off his dick and reaches up beneath Ford’s towel. He rests the back of his hand on Ford’s inner thigh and feels the mattress quaking under them.

“Can I?” Stan whispers.

Ford’s hand is resting on Stan’s belly now, and it feels cool, refreshing. His eyes are heavy lidded and his breathing is heavy. “Yeah,” he says.

Stan sits up, rocking Ford back onto his knees. He’s still got him by the thigh, and it feels like wrestling, which he knows well how to do with Ford. “Can I,” he starts, then figures explaining is stupid, he’ll just _show_ Ford.

He turns Ford around and sits him on the edge of the bed, and puts his legs around Ford. Stan’s dick is pushing hard against Ford’s back, and god, he loves this. He bows his head to rest against the fresh wet skin at Ford’s nape. His arms are around Ford’s waist, one hand grabbing Ford’s thigh at the crease. And Ford’s fingers are digging into Stan’s thighs.

“Fuck yeah,” Stan says, and gets his hand tangled in Ford’s towel trying to move it out of the way.

“Nngh,” is all Ford can say, which makes Stan impressed with himself. Not much reduces Ford to wordlessness. Ford bucks his hips into Stan’s groping hand and says “C’mon – please – “ and then when Stan finally gets a bare hand on his erection, “— _yes!_ ”

“Shh,” Stan says, feeling warm inside at the _please_ as he pulls Ford closer to him. The pressure on his own dick is less than his own handjob but god, he’s so close now, he doesn’t want to finish before Ford comes anyway.

He pumps Ford’s cock slow and deliberately at first, but Ford’s squirming so much and bossily saying “C’mon, c’mon, more, faster,” that Stan gives in and jacks him fast. He wants to savor this, because, jeeee-zus, Ford writhing in his lap, rubbing against his dick, the wet head of his cock leaking and smearing under Stan’s hand, Ford’s quiet little throat-catches and hard breathing that Stan recognizes from nights when they both figure the other’s asleep or should be, so it’s safe to jerk off in their shared room.

He licks the skin where Ford’s neck and shoulder muscles join, just to taste. It tastes good. He digs in his teeth a little – “Ahh,” groans Ford, and Stan shushes him. Ford stuffs his own knuckles into his mouth, and fuck, if that isn’t hot – Stan thinks he could come any second.

“Give me those,” Stan says, and Ford moves his hand back toward Stan’s head, fingers outspread like he’s trying to grab Stan’s hair.

Hmm. Maybe next time.

Stan lunges and sucks Ford’s fingers into his mouth – two, three – until they’re so far in he feels his swallow-reflex working – and moans, and Stan comes thrusting into the small of Ford’s shower-wet back. His grip on Ford’s dick tightens, and Ford makes a stifled yelp and then shoots off everywhere – on Stan’s hand, forearm, Ford’s own lap and thighs.

The room is now pitch black, with just a line of yellow coming in under their bedroom door. Stan doesn’t want the lights to go on – could sit like this, forever, as long as he could ignore the tacky wet smear between his belly and his brother’s back.

“If they heard us, we’re dead,” Ford hisses, and Stan shivers and falls back onto Ford’s bed.

Ford’s getting up and grabbing around for something. To wipe off the jizz.

“Hand me your towel,” Stan whispers.

“No, you go shower,” Ford replies.

“What about you?” Stan says.

“I already showered.” Stan can hear a smile in his brother’s voice.

“How’re you gonna get clean?”

Ford doesn’t answer, just hands Stan a balled-up t-shirt. It’s Stan’s shirt he took off before lying down. It’s sticky.

Stan groans the beginning of a complaint, but Ford quickly slaps a hand over Stan’s mouth. Footsteps creak in the hallway, and they hold their breaths, Ford’s sticky fingers over Stan’s mouth.

The sound of a door closing.

No more steps.

Stan breathes on Ford’s fingers in the dark and thinks, _holy shit_. He thinks, _this should feel wrong._ But it doesn’t. It feels really, strangely, right. He smiles, and in the crack of light from under the door, he can almost see Ford smiling too.


End file.
